The Warmest Color
by cathema
Summary: Inspired by and loosely based off the movie Blue is the Warmest Color. Tweek has begun to accept that his day-to-day life is constant and habitual, and happiness and contentment is a luxury he can't afford. That is until he meets a stranger he can't take his mind off of, and who eventually changes the ebb and flow of his tide.
1. Chapter 1

**The Warmest Color**

Loosely based off of _Blue is the Warmest Color_. I did imagine this story in its entirety as a movie, so I had trouble putting them into words. The last time I wrote a South Park fanfic, or any fanfic for that matter, was when I wrote _Blindfold_. I read it recently and was alarmed by how horrible the story was (I wrote it years ago, in my childhood) so I discontinued it. Here's my second attempt to write another Craid x Tweek multichapter fic, and I admit my skills may have gone rusty, and I'm not as keen to detail and references like I used to be. If anything, however, I would make references to the recent seasons, and some relevant episodes I could still recall.

Happy reading!

* * *

**Chapter One: The Prelude**

I loved Autumn.

For once, the heat and the cold put aside their differences and collide into the atmosphere. I loved things like that. No wars, no conflicts, no arguments. Perhaps I've lived my life too long to grow sick and tired of such terrible circumstances. In my mind, the world is perfect, with neighbors greeting neighbors without harboring internal hatred, with honest businessmen and politicians who make good and moral use of government funds, with everyone falling in love with the right person who loves them in return...

In my mind, the world is perfect, and I am happy.

Naive little Tweek, always dreaming of perfect situations. Even as a child during meditation sessions, I find myself at peace at a beautiful garden, watching lilies float by on pristine waters undisturbed. How I envied those lilies. Beautifully positioned on a lush green foundation, slowly drifting by on still water. In my mind, the world is perfect, and I am that lily.

But dreams can only reach so far. When you open your eyes to greet the morning light, they vanish.

This is what I have failed to comprehend for years. You dream, you hope, you wish on fallen eyelashes, on ladybugs, on dandelions. But life is not so simple. Life does not listen to you and change its course to fulfill your happiness. You have to create your own happiness, and that, in itself, is already too much pressure for me.

"Hey kid?"

I jump slightly in surprise, look up and see the bus driver gesturing at me. "Are you getting in, or what?"

I blink a few times before entering the bus and taking an empty seat by the window. I've watched the same streets change day by day, season by season. I've watched the same trees change to the same hues of orange and yellow, and the same leaves fall to the same erratic rhythm. Same scenes, different day.

It takes exactly 14.07 minutes for the bus to reach the public school I attend. When I got bored observing and memorizing the view of my window, I started timing bus rides. It took 2 weeks for me to conclude that even that was unchanging.

Even my friends have this routine. I get down the bus and find Butters waving his hands by the steps. We enter the building and he starts asking me how I'm doing, then tells me this narrative of something he did or something that happened, then asks me questions I don't know how to answer. And every time, I say, "I'm good," "Wow," and "I don't know man, too much pressure."

When we get our books, Stan and Kyle approach us and either start a discussion or start a debate, and every time, I say little to none, or come up with an excuse to avoid taking sides between the two of them.

Then, the bell rings, and everyone parts ways for first period, and the cycle repeats for lunch break, and dismissal. Same faces, different day.

I've long wondered when I'll be exposed to a shift in my life. Something that will pull me out of this routine. Something that will spark a change and make me wonder, for the first time, what's next?

Class ends for the day and it's a quiet walk towards my family's business they had named me after. People often think that they named that coffee shop after me, but it's the other way around, much to their surprise. My parents are obssessed with their coffee. For the most part of my childhood, I was too, until I learned their secret ingredient by accident. It made big news for two weeks at South Park which momentarily destroyed our business and our name until my dad hired Kyle's father to be his lawyer. He gave "solid" evidences how small amounts of meth are beneficial to a person's health, and how my father only ever used it a few times, and that our sources were hygienic and credited.

I never got to know if what he had said were true, but the case was dismissed, and my parents' business got back on its feet. Since then, though, I never drank coffee again. This alarmed them both, but quickly concluded that it was post traumatic stress. It was less of that, but more of the result of anger, but I never vocally expressed that.

I still help out at the shop after school when I don't have homework, and it pays off getting extra allowance. There isn't any bus that passes by or anywhere near the shop, though, so I walk all the way there. A 20-minute exercise.

When the shop appears on my direct line of sight, I notice someone outside, leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette. It was strange seeing him there. My mom disapproves bystanders just standing around smoking, drinking beer, or being rowdy with friends outside our shop. She would always get dad to shoo them away who'll then either scare them off with his normally weird character, or threaten to alert the police.

Perhaps he just got here, I tell myself. My attention shifts to the door of our coffee shop that swings open in a rush. A couple of blonds emerge from the shop and greet the bystander, and I almost trip when I watch him take the cigarette out his mouth to kiss one of them. My gaze falls to the ground as they start walking towards me, opposite my direction, and I pretend that I hadn't witnessed what I had just did. I let my nerves rest before lifting my head, but as I do, I catch the man with a cigarette stuck between his lips looking directly at me.

I take a sharp intake of breath. I see it for only a split second before he and his friends pass me by, and I let myself walk a few more steps before twisting my head quickly to look back at him. His eyes are still glued to mine, unwavering and undecipherable. He keeps his gaze as they walk on, only breaking it when the boy he has his arm draped around the shoulders of speaks to him.

I feel my heart jump. What was that? Why was he looking at me, and what came over me that I had to turn around to stare at him back? I've never met him before, and yet I felt that strange connection, as much as I'd hate to admit. The way his eyes kept their gaze as though he knew the answer to a question buried deep in my subconscious. Now, there's an alien feeling at the pit of my stomach, and I want so badly to throw up. For a moment, I ponder over the possibility that I had been cast a spell on, but I shrug at the thought.

I realize that I'm over-thinking the encounter, and proceed to our coffee shop to work alongside my parents. But I can't shake off the memory of his eyes on mine that night as I lie on my bed wondering why I had been captivated by a complete stranger.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Warmest Color**

**Chapter Two: Affair**

I thought that I would forget the incident if I stopped reading too much into it, but I find myself 3 days after still thinking about him and his half-burnt cigarette and his eyes that could suck the life out of a human being. It's when I remember the other boy, the one in a checkered shirt and with dirty blond hair, the one he had kissed outside my family's coffee shop, that I realized it's best that I forget him.

I shouldn't be thinking about someone else's partner. Some would even argue that I shouldn't be thinking about boys in general, but that doesn't bother me. Annie, my friend and summer fling back in Ninth Grade (a time we both agreed to never mention to anyone, but secretly treasured), once told me that most girls experience a stage when they become bi-curious, so boys shouldn't be any different. I neglected to tell her that I found it to be complete bullshit because I can't comprehend why we should be boxed in the idea that liking the same sex is a "phase" or the effect of "pure curiosity."

In any case, I let him slip my mind for a while. I go back to my usual daily routine of watching the same streets out the same window, going in and out the same classrooms to learn, and being with the same faces at lunch.

But this particular lunch period, Bebe is on Stan's seat, talking to us about her birthday party on Friday night at her house. I observe her as she spoke, her back impeccably straight, her arms folded on the table, and her long yellow hair pulled to and over her left shoulder, cascading down to her chest like waves. Everyone's secretly hard for Bebe, ever since the idea of sex was made clear to our brains, and she started dressing prettier and everyone noticed the growth of her breasts. Not only did she have looks like a goddess, she had the personality like one as well.

She's sweet and polite to anyone and everyone, even to people she doesn't really converse with on a normal day. No one has the heart to hate her.

"I'm inviting Wendy, and she wants Stan to be there so I allowed her to try and invite him," She says. I heard from Kyle once that Wendy's been trying to get Stan's attention for quite some time now, but Stan's either a clueless dunce, or he's afraid to put himself through the pressure of being the apple of a beautiful running-for-valedictorian's eye. At least, that's what Kyle told me.

"But she wants to make sure that Stan won't turn down the invitation because his friends aren't there, so here I am inviting all of you to my party." For someone who's had boys and girls of different ages make double takes when she passes by, she's quite brutally frank.

Butters is the first to respond. "That's very thoughtful of you, Bebe, but I can't go to house parties until I graduate college."

"Aren't you too old to do anything your parents say?" Kyle snickers.

Butters just frowns at him. I feel sorry for Butters when it comes to events like this and he can't come in fear of his parents. I've met them, and they're kind and welcoming, but Butters says they give the worst punishments when he does something they would disapprove of. There isn't a thing he could do, however, but follow their rules. We just nod in understanding and pat him on the back in sympathy.

"What about you, Kyle?" Bebe asks.

"Sure, I'll be there." Kyle answers with a smile.

"And Tweek?"

I look at her. She's staring at me with her big doe eyes and I suddenly remember him again. He didn't stare at me the way Bebe is doing now. Her stare is questioning and only seeing shallow water, whereas his stare engraved itself deep within me. There's this something I can't pinpoint, and it's frustrating. In desperation of a distraction, I say, "Yeah, why not?"

She clasps her hands together. "Yay! I'll see you boys on Friday!" I watch her get up and leave in one fluid motion, her hips swaying and her curly hair bouncing in every step. It's a strange spell of hers. A possession of a presence and an aura that makes every single person watch her, observing her movements like the ebb and flow of a tide. Once she disappears from the cafeteria doors, I hear everyone resume their chatter.

I look at Kyle. "Are you really going?"

He shrugs. "I probably won't. Stan doesn't need a wingman."

"Stan might say no to Wendy if he finds out none of us are going!" Butters cries in worry.

"Trust me guys," Kyle says with a laugh, "if there's anything Stan hates, it's hurting the feelings of pretty girls."

Butters looks at me, still apprehensive. "You should still go, Tweek. I don't want Wendy or Bebe to hate us!"

I shiver. I honestly didn't want to attend a large gathering with different people I don't know, and even more so now that I would have to go alone. But I didn't want to risk anything like what Butters had said. That's simply too much pressure.

"Okay," I murmur.

That Friday night, I show up at Bebe's in the most decent clothes I could put on and wait for her to open the door.

I could hear music blaring from the inside, and when Bebe greets me, I see a flood of people behind her. I start to regret coming here, but Bebe's warm smile somehow melts the troubles.

"Welcome, Tweek!" She says, giving me a quick hug.

"Happy birthday," I say courteously, handing her a paperbag with a pack of Brazilian Coffee Blend as a gift.

She accepts it and kisses me on the cheek, and I shiver a little.

"Come on in, make yourself at home!" She grabs my arm and leads me inside. I'm thankful that she chose to do this, because I would have gotten lost in the sea of familiar and unfamiliar faces had I gone in alone. "I haven't seen Kyle yet, but some of our classmates are here. You'll find someone to chat with, I'm sure."

She takes me to the snack bar lined with different kinds of finger food and alcoholic drinks. She reaches over to get me a can of beer, but stops when a hand appears between us and lands on her shoulder. We both spin around, and it's someone I haven't seen before. Bebe's face lights up and she yells, "Clyde!"

She hugs him tight and kisses him on the cheek. "I'm so glad you actually came."

"That's what she said." He laughs.

Bebe giggles. "Oh Clyde, you haven't changed." She frowns. "Please tell me you didn't bring your friends with you."

"Just one, I promise." Clyde makes an X over his chest. "And he's not into parties, so he's probably bumming around over there."

I turn away from their conversation realizing that Bebe's attention is now fully on someone else. I stare at all the food laid out in front of me and follow them with my eyes all the way to the end of the table. That's when I notice a figure leaning on the wall beside the edge of the snack bar, arms crossed and watching me. I stare at him agape. It'shim, him and those unmistakable eyes, and the blue hat he now had tied around his neck. He's still watching me, and I find myself at a loss of what to do or say.

"Hey, dude?"

I jump and look at the stranger who just tapped my shoulder. "Could you hand me a couple of beers down there? You're kind of in the way."

I blink a few times before mumbling an apology and reaching over to get him two cans. When I hand them to him and glance back at the wall, the figure's gone. I feel my heart drop and I grunt in annoyance. I lost him again! Am I never getting an answer to all these fucking questions?

All of a sudden, he appears again, right beside me as he squeezes through people standing by the table as I am. My eyes widen and my mouth drops once more. He glances at me then gestures towards the drinks. "I don't know about you, but I'd say you try the Vodka Ice. It's pre-mixed, only around 7% alcohol. Didn't know that shit existed, but it's good."

I stare at him, speechless, then at the drink he mentioned, then back at him.

"Do you drink?" he asks.

I clear my throat. "Uh, not really."

He grabs two bottles. "I'd say we should split."

I raise my eyebrow at him. "The...drink?"

He lets out a small laugh, just one, like a cough. "No, I mean let's get out of here."

He's looking at me again with those eyes, and I've come to realize that I've grown hypnotized by them that I find myself saying yes and following him out the door and to the dimly lit streets.

We walk side by side in silence, and he opens the two bottles on the edge of the base of a streetlamp. He hands me one and starts drinking the other. I taste it, and it's slightly sweet with unnoticeable traces of the alcohol. He finishes his in three gulps, and he leaves it on the curb. I take a little longer to finish mine, so he takes out his pack of cigarettes to light one up.

I watch him place a cigarette in between his lips and ignite one end with a Zippo. He pockets the lighter and exhales the smoke into the open air. "You want one?"

"I don't smoke," I tell him. It still feels surreal that I'm talking to the guy that's been in my mind for almost a week, and I can't stop myself from staring at him.

He chuckles. "You keep staring at me. Do I have something on my face?"

I shake my head. "Funny, I should be asking you the same question."

He takes out the cigarette from his mouth and exhales.

"The other day," I start, trying my best not to stutter, "You were looking at me."

"You caught my eye," he says simply.

"Do I know you?"

"Probably not. I don't know who you are, either."

I furrow my eyebrows. "And a while ago, you were staring at me again."

He turns away with a small smirk. "Honestly? It's to check if you would stare back at me again."

I take a sharp intake of breath and tighten my grip on the bottle I have on my hands. I don't know what to say to that. Here I am, trying to get an answer as to why he had stared at me back at the coffee shop, but here he is, trying to get an answer as to why I had stared right back.

He looks at me with concern. "Was that fine?"

I shakily nod my head. "I just thought you had some blond fetish, or something."

This makes him laugh. "Hey, not all my friends are blond."

I remember the guy he kissed, and I start feeling nervous at the thought that he was thinking about me this entire time. What if his significant other hunts me down and threatens me not to speak with him again, else he'll shoot me in the head and dump my body at an abandoned farm up north? This was all too nerve-wracking.

When he notices that I have grown silent, he says, "My name's Craig."

"Uh," I look at my bottle and twitch. "Tweek."

He raises his eyebrows. "Oh, so you're Tweek."

"I'm named after the shop," I reply. "Do you go there a lot?"

He shakes his head. "My friends do. But I remember that shit on TV with the meth."

I cringe. It isn't a really good thing when someone recalls you from the meth case. I have always felt that I was being wrongly judged because of it, and so I don't give my name out to just anybody.

"Are you going to finish that?"

I twitch and see him pointing to the Vodka on my hands. I stare at it thoughtfully, then drink it down. I feel a little jolt in my chest and a light throb in my head, but I ignore it. I used to feel worse effects. I set the bottle down on the curb just as Craig did, and it's a weird sensation in my stomach when I finally can address this person whose eyes have made a permanent mark in my thoughts by name.

We walk again in silence until we reach this pedestrian lane, and I stop while he continues walking forward. He glances to his side, then back at me, and stops.

"My house is that way," I tell him, pointing to my left. I realize too late that it sounded so childish, seemingly insinuating that I want to head home. I also realize that it also sounded like a come-on when I see his mouth curve upwards, amused. I feel my face grow hot and I shake my head slightly. "I didn't mean... Uhm. Nevermind."

He walks back to me and says, "I guess I'll see you around."

I nod.

I watch him put his hat on his head as he asks, "What High School?"

"Uh, Cartier High," I answer him. He nods his head. "Cool."

Then, bringing his hand on my head, he combs his fingers through my hair slowly and gently, sending shock waves throughout my body, and I shudder. I let out a soft embarrassing whimper. He gives me a smile, pockets his hand, and says, "See you around, Tweek."

I watch him turn and leave, untying the knot of the strings of his hat. I watch him walk on, threads of smoke dissolving into the air, growing fainter as he disappears into the night.

I run my own fingers through my hair, his touch still ghosting on where he lingered, and I replay his last words in my head, memorizing his tone, his pitch, the way he drawled out my name, and the movement of his lips as he spoke.

What had been his eyes a few days ago have become his voice that has reeled me into his possession, and I can't stop myself from repeating his words, "See you around, Tweek."

And for a brief moment, for the first time in a very long time, I begin to wonder...

_What's next?_

* * *

The weekend flies by, and working at the shop had felt more excruciating than normal, with me constantly checking if Craig came by to see me, or to smoke outside while a friend buys coffee at least. I've never been this attentive yet distracted at the same time.

No, I am not falling for him. What I want is to know more about him, to discover his intentions, where he goes, what he does, what he thinks. I want to know why he chose to speak with me, why he ran his fingers through my hair, why he gave a promise. I want to memorize details other than his dark eyes, his voice, and the exact spot he puts his cigarette between his lips.

I didn't need to fall in love to want to know these things.

Monday comes, and I am instantly grateful to focus on things other than him. But my mind is disobedient and it wanders to different places that even Butters asks me if I'm alright.

"I'm okay," I tell him.

"You seem kind of in another world," he says. "Did something happen last weekend?"

I want to talk about it. I want to tell somebody how a stranger captivated me in so many ways, and I want to find out how this is possible. I want to ask Bebe about Craig and where I could be able to find him. I want someone to tell me how to get someone out of my mind because I am agitated and restless, and I need a cure.

But I don't. I don't tell Butters, nor do I approach Bebe. I thought that if I speak about it to anybody, then it will lose its magic. It wouldn't feel so special and exciting. No, this is my own secret, my own personal quest to fulfill. This is my break from the routine, and I am obsessed with the feeling.

So I put on a smile and I shrug, and we go back to answering Chemistry.

Throughout the day, I do what I normally do. I sit and listen to conversations among Butters, Stan, Kyle, and at one point Kevin, but all he talked about was the upcoming Star Trek prequel hitting the movies, and I wonder when he'll ever get over that obsession. Like I'm one to talk.

School ends with a brief afternoon assembly, and I head out the gymnasium with the guys.

"So, how was the party with Wendy, Stan?" Kyle asks him, smirking.

Stan sheepishly rubs the back of his neck. "It was nice."

Butters giggles. "You like Wendy too, admit it."

Stan grows bright red.

"You should just man up and court her, dude," Kyle says, laughing. "She really likes you, so it's just a piece of cake."

"Jesus Christ, dude," Stan mumbles in embarrassment. He turn to me and asks, "You went to Bebe's right, Tweek?"

I twitch. "Y-yeah."

"Don't change the subject, man." Kyle shoves Stan's shoulder, and I look away and watch the other kids head on home. Amazing how I've spent a good portion of my life going to the same school with these people, and yet their names escape me. I eye them one by one for a little game of "Guess the Name" with myself when my eyes fall upon a familiar figure by the streetlamp across the street.

He has his hat on and a cigarette hanging between his lips curved into a smile as he stares at me once again. I feel my lips part in surprise as I stare at him back that I almost couldn't hear Stan's words directed to me.

"I, uh, have to go," I murmur, addressing the three of them, but my eyes do not leave Craig's for a second.

I cross the street and approach him, chewing on my lip and probably looking stupid.

"Tweek?" I hear Kyle call.

I ignore him.

"What's up, rich kid?" Craig tells me.

Students of Cartier High have this reputation of being wealthy because of its relatively pricey tuition fees. Kids whose parents have good and successful jobs are found here, which makes me constantly wonder why my parents could afford admitting me here. But they do, so I leave it at that.

"I'm not rich," I reply defensively. "Jesus."

"Tweek!"

Craig glances up, then back at me. "I think your rich friends are calling you."

I shrug. "Do you want to go somewhere?"

"That's why I'm here, isn't it?" He blows out smoke, then starts walking, and I follow suit, slightly giddy that he had taken it upon himself to see me today.

After a few minutes of walking in silence, I realize that we're heading away from the neighborhood and towards the forest. I start getting nervous.

"Uhm," I say, "where are we going?"

"There's this old cabin I found over the weekend," He replies. "It's cool, we have to check it out again."

"What?" A cabin? Oh, Jesus.

I stop walking and glare at Craig's backpack, checking if I can make out an outline of an ax, or a gun, or a spiked baseball bat. Is that what he does? Charm people and bring them to a hidden area to murder them? And what weapon do I have in my own backpack? I have pencils, but they aren't sharp enough to drill holes on his eyes. I guess I'd have to use my fists and knock him out before he gets me!

He turns around. "Why are you glaring at me like that?"

My fists are balled in preparation for a strike. "What's in your bag?"

He raises his eyebrows. "A notebook, some pens, SAT review sheets, homework? Why?"

"Are you going to drug me?" I press further. "Did you take other people there? And I'll activate some shit and you'll send some bastards dressed as zombies to kill us all while you watch from a screen? Or did you finish them off already, and I'm the one whose life is preserved until all the four archetypes have been murdered?"

He furrows his eyebrows.

I almost yell, "Which is it?"

"The fuck, you psycho," he tells me as he walks nearer. "This isn't Cabin in the Woods."

"You're taking me to a cabin. In the woods."

He sighs. "I'm not going to kill you. Look, what I have in my bag," he points at it, "is a camcorder. I was scouting for locations, and I came across the cabin which fit perfectly in a scene. You'll see, it's pretty cinematic."

"That doesn't make things better," I reply, getting even more defensive.

He rolls his eyes. "Tweek, do I look like I want to kill you?"

I eye him, down and up, and I slightly falter.

He extends his hand. "Just trust me."

And at those words, I relent. I take his hand, and we continue on, counting the seconds before he lets go. He doesn't.

We reach the cabin and the effect of its abandonment is axiomatic. He drops his cigarette on the ground and crushes it with his foot before I could warn him of creating a forest fire, and he finally lets go as he searches his bag for what might be his camcorder.

"It's going to look so great in my movie," he mumbles happily to himself.

"You make films?" I ask him.

"Not professionally. It's more of a hobby. I've been doing it since Fourth Grade."

This makes me feel silly. He's making something out of his life, even if he does it privately. And what have I been doing? Counting minutes and memorizing unimportant details and mopping the floors of our family business. What could Craig possibly want with me?

"I haven't been doing it for a while, though," he confesses as he walks towards the cabin. "Couldn't find the inspiration, I guess."

"Nothing interesting in South Park, really," I reply as I follow him.

He swings open the door hanging on by a rusty hinge as he glances at me. "I had thought so. I guess all I needed to do was wait."

I peer inside the cabin, and I could smell decaying organisms and rat shit possibly littering all over the place. It's tiny, like two garden sheds combined, but I could see where the bed had been and the dusty fireplace and the broken chair at the corner by cabinets with old moldy food. "I don't know," I say, "you did find this cabin."

"I wasn't talking about this crap."

I glance at him, and I'm surprised to find him filming me. "Wh-what are you doing?"

"You're the perfect actor," he says, getting closer to me. "I knew the moment I saw you at your coffee shop."

"I'm not an actor!" I cover my reddening face. "I'm an awkward human being!"

He puts down the camcorder to my relief, and he laughs. "One look at you, and I started imagining scenes and plots, and it was such a thrill to reignite that spark. I couldn't get your face off my mind."

I feel my heart skip a beat.

"You have no idea how happy I was to see you at Bebe's party. It's like the cinema gods have gifted me a Muse to create the perfect movie." He grabs my arm. "Come on, lie down on the floor."

"Ack!" I try pulling my arm off his grip. "Why?"

"Calm down, asswipe, this is for a scene."

We wrestle for a full five seconds, and Craig succeeds, pinning me down on the dusty floor.

"Something's crawling on my leg," I whimper.

"Nothing's on your leg." He points his camcorder towards me again. "Now, look at me. No, me as in the camera. Good, but could you look less like you're gonna shit your pants? No, you're giving me a look like you want to kill me. Just look at the camera like you feel lost. Figuratively, not literally."

At this point, I've calmed myself down, and I give him a blank stare to get it over with. He stays kneeling beside me with his camcorder pointed at me for a while before he stands up to get farther away. "Just stay like that."

I stare at the ceiling and sigh. I'm his muse? We've just met and he's bossing me around like we're close. I've also realize that he's also kind of annoying. But I guess I'm still so hooked on him that I do as he says and trust him against my will. I'm finding out more about him just as I had wanted, though. At least I'm gaining something.

"Okay, you can sit up now."

I immediately stand and wipe the dust off my legs. I hear Craig walk towards me and he starts wiping my sweater and tousling my hair. I sigh when he touches my hair again, feeling the electricity once more.

He leads me outside and we shoot some more scenes until Craig is fully satisfied. When he is, we walk back to the neighborhood.

"So," he says after a while, "any secrets or hobbies you want to share with me?"

I raise my eyebrow at him. "None that I can think of."

"I shoot films, I smoke, and I scare interesting people by kidnapping them and taking them to places to film." He laughs. "Tell me something about you so we could be even."

I shrug. There isn't anything special about me really. I don't have hobbies, or think about ambitions. I live a mundane life where I do the exact same things. At least, not until recently. I tell Craig this, and he shakes his head.

"I have a hard time believing that. I think you're very interesting."

I eye him incredulously. "You don't even know me."

He stops walking and stares at me. Once again, I'm pulled into a stupor as his eyes pierce through me like laser beams. He gets closer until we're mere inches apart, and I gulp at the uncomfortable nearness of his face to mine. "I want to know you," he mumbles, and I shake as I watch the movement of his lips when he speaks.

"Why?" I ask him quietly.

He shrugs. I accept the response because I want to know him too, and if he asked me why, I wouldn't know how to answer either.

He steps back. "Anyway, I should get going. I was supposed to meet Thomas half an hour ago."

I cock my head to the side. Thomas? Is that the guy Craig had his arms around the shoulders of back when I first met him? My heart drops and my stomach churns, and I can't comprehend why.

"How long have you been with Thomas?" I suddenly find myself asking.

He clicks his tongue. "A few weeks. It's nothing serious. He's leaving town, anyway."

"Huh." I refrain from speaking from then on, and we resume our walk back to the neighborhood. When we reach the streets, Craig waves goodbye, brushes my hair with his fingers once more, and leaves.

I go home and throw myself on my bed in a huff. What am I doing with a guy I just met who only sees me as the star of his movie? At least, that's what I tell myself. He's in a relationship with someone else, even if it isn't as serious as he claims it to be. I feel like a whore, and he seems like a fucking player which isn't a really good sign. He acts as if we're good friends, and it makes me feel weird. It makes me feel pissed off. Why am I settling for less than what I want? But then again, what do I want? Why do I feel this way, why am I thinking these things? It's so frustrating and stressful.

And then I picture him again, looking at me straight in the eyes when he steals glances or talks to me. I remember his cold hands holding onto mine when he asks me to trust him, and how he stood so close to me that I could associate his smell with fresh laundry and burnt wood, and the way his lips moved as he spoke.

My face burns. What is he doing to me?


	3. Chapter 3

**The Warmest Color**

**Chapter Three: Displacement**

"Hey, Tweek."

I take a bite of my sandwich before looking at Kyle.

"Who were you with yesterday?"

My heart skips a beat at the sudden mention.

"Yeah, he looked like a thug," Stan pipes in. "Is he bullying you?"

I shudder. "What are you guys talking about?"

"That fella you went off with after the assembly," Butters replies.

"He's just a friend."

"He doesn't go to this school."

"I, uh, met him at the coffee shop. He's okay."

Kyle rolls his eyes. "Right. And you two are hanging out now."

"Why are you guys making a big deal out of this?" I start shivering.

Stan sighs. "We're just concerned. We really thought he was bullying you. Making you do things with him, stealing your money, that kind of thing."

I twitch. "Cause I look like easy bait for bullies, right?"

"We're not saying that!" Kyle rubs his temple. "Why are you getting defensive?"

"You keep asking me questions!"

"We wouldn't if you just tell us the truth!"

"I am!" I grab my hair in frustration. "He's just a friend I met recently and, yeah, we hung out yesterday. Ack, too much pressure!"

They all sigh and, thankfully, drop the subject.

I don't think they would understand my acquaintance with Craig. I doubt anyone would. And if they did, why should I bring myself to tell them? How a spark flickered within me when we met? They would laugh. "Love at first sight? That's stupid, Tweek." I would agree, but that doesn't mean it's exactly that.

I'm not in love Craig. That part is true. But I am curious about him. No one would understand, so I don't bother to tell. Besides, I felt possessive over the situation. I didn't want anyone to know about our "connection," as I have taken it upon myself to name. I wanted it to be an unsaid relationship, something not even Craig and I should acknowledge. It's strangely beautiful that way.

That afternoon, Craig stands at the same spot, and I quickly go to him, avoiding the stares of my friends once again.

Craig brings me to this open field by a pond littered with brown and yellow leaves that disintegrate under my feet which each step. I take a seat under the tree, loud crunches emanating from beneath, and pretend not to notice Craig filming me like before.

"I got attacked by a duck here once," I tell him.

"What? What did you do?"

"I don't know, I think I spilled hot coffee on it."

"Psycho."

"Not on purpose!"

He laughs.

He packs his camcorder and sits next to me, searching for what could be his box of cigarettes in his pocket. A wind blows and some of the leaves fly around us like waves crashing against rocks in a storm. It's a therapeutic sound, and for a moment I forget where I am if not for Craig breaking the silence.

"Why though?"

I whip my head and blink at him.

"Why spill coffee on a duck?" He places a stick inside his mouth and cup the end as he lights it.

I frown at Craig's question as though he's accusing me of animal abuse. "Because it freaked me out!"

"So you gave it a third degree burn."

"It was an accident!"

He lies down on the pile of leaves beside us and closes his eyes, his cigarette still hanging limply on his mouth. I hug my knees and close my eyes too, listening to the sounds around me: the rustle of autumn leaves, birds chirping in the distance, Craig's steady breathing.

"I think this could be my new favorite pack."

I open my eyes and glance towards him.

He blows smoke into the air and stares at the box. "It's flavored. Don't tell anyone, they'll call me a fucking pansy."

I shrug. "I wouldn't know."

"You want to try?" He extends his arm to offer me his cigarette box and I shake my head. "I-I don't really know how."

"I'll show you."

"Ack! And-and lung cancer, you know?"

"Oh, come on."

He sits up and inches closer to me. I furiously shake my head, and he sighs.

"Okay, just let me do this."

He covers his mouth with his left hand and closes his eyes as he breathes in deeply. He removes the cigarette and grabs the back of my head, putting his face close to mine. In shock, my mouth opens slightly, and he breathes out the smoke into it. I could taste and smell the nicotine riddled with hints of vanilla and chocolate, but my mind is focused on Craig's lips centimeters away from my own. He pulls away only to breathe in deeply and once more blow out the smoke into my mouth.

All at once, I'm overwhelmed with another alien feeling. I feel calm, and yet my heart is beating, quick and deafening. I close my eyes and lean into Craig's hand placed at the side of my head, letting him breathe into me.

"Good, huh?" He whispers after a while. "A miracle that stores manage to get away with selling these things."

"Hm." I merely reply. I can still feel his face close to mine, and my mind and body feel electrified like lightning is coursing through my nerves and veins, and suddenly, I find myself leaning forward.

The tips of my lips brush against Craig's, and I open my eyes in bewilderment, turning away from his face. I stay frozen on the spot, scratching my pant leg in panic. What did I just do? Will he understand that it was an accident? And what of Thomas? I open my mouth to speak, to apologize, but I find myself at a loss for words as Craig shifts his position to move closer. I feel his breath tickle the back of my ear, and I gasp as he snakes his arms around my waist. He whispers, "Hey." and I shyly turn my head to face him. He rests his forehead against mine, and I shut my eyes tight, overwhelmed by the varying sensations around my body. And he kisses me.

Every other thing disappears, and all I could feel is Craig's lips against mine like two puzzle pieces joined together. He pulls back, and I hang my head low, feeling silly. He retracts his arms, pushes his body forward, and lies down on the leaves once again. I sit still, trying to process the past 2 minutes, and I give up. I slide down beside Craig and close my eyes.

I end up falling asleep and waking up an hour later to Craig nudging my shoulder. We shake off some leaves that have fallen on top of us, and walk back to the neighborhood in drowsy silence. He offers to accompany me home, but I refuse, so he gives me his usual head petting and a quiet "See you," before walking onward.

The next day, he doesn't show up.

Strangely, I don't find this disconcerting. Perhaps I've figured it a possible outcome since kissing him out of the blue yesterday. Anyway, I had homework to do, so heading straight home would have been a priority.

Miraculously enough, I don't think about Craig the entire evening. I'm not sure if it's because I'm too into _The Unbearable Lightness of Being_, this semester's required reading, or if it's because yesterday didn't feel like such a cliffhanger. It didn't feel like a phrase, or a clause needing something to complete it. Had Craig not kissed me back, I would have worried myself to the point of unproductivity. But he did. And that completed the sentence.

So he doesn't cross my mind as I lie in bed holding the book up, now and then checking my phone for meanings of certain words. I grumble when I hear footsteps in the hallway that stop in front of my room.

The door creaks open, and my dad's head emerges from the slight opening, looking at me with his annoying smile.

"Hello, Tweek."

I lower my book down in response.

"Are you busy?"

"I'm reading," I tell him, "for a book report."

He nods slowly, his smile unfaltering. "You haven't been going to the shop."

"I don't really have time..." I twitch, holding the book up once again. "I mean, if I did, I would help out, right?"

He stares at me, and again it's a different kind of stare. It's a kind of stare that analyzes you, that tries to scrutinize your every movement, waiting for you to break and succumb to his whim. I try to conceal my shudder.

"Well, we need more hands. The Tower of Babel was not built to tower over heads by one man and one man alone. But only one man can send it shaking and tumbling down." I cringe. "Also, we have to begin our holiday blends."

He slowly retreats back into the hallway. "And dinner is ready." He closes the door.

I grumble and toss the book aside, scratching my head.

When I come downstairs, mom and dad are already at the table at the same side, as always. I've always hated this set-up, because I would always have to sit through an entire meal facing them.

I love them, honestly I do. But I feel most pressured by them to do what they expect of me, which is to be their son. Silly as it may sound. I know my life was already made to direct itself to taking over the business once my dad decides to retire, and I know that I don't have ambitions as high as anyone entering college next year, but I don't want to be doomed to live a life so mediocre and dull.

I sit on my chair, opposite them, and lower my head as mom says a prayer. Anyone who has met her would agree that she fit the exact description of a typical, poster mom. She does what a stereotypical mother would do, and treats her family like how a stereotypical mother would. I've heard from people that she's the adult version of Bebe. Perhaps in some cases, she is.

Sometimes, I want to know why she married my dad. I glance at him and see him watching me, and I shiver.

As I start poking at my baked salmon, mom asks, "Is school being demanding lately, sweetie?"

"Huh?" I look at her, but then quickly realize, "Oh. Uh, yeah. Tons of homework."

"I'm sure that can wait," Dad interrupts. "We need to start discussing our holiday brews."

"We should do our Hot Coffee Cocoa drink again, dear," Mom says excitedly. "Everyone loved it!"

Dad nods. "Ah yes, we managed to beat our Hot Cocoa competitor with that one. Like a misplaced jar of rubber bands finally off the shelf of breakfast items."

I sigh. I usually just slink back when they start discussing work, or coffee in general. I finish my food and excuse myself, but not before they get my "approval" on their ideas for Holiday Promos. I enclose it in quotation because they just want to feel that I'm involved with the business and that I don't accuse them of leaving me out of it all (which I would never do, anyway).

I retreat to my room with them still chattering excitedly about their plans and turn on my laptop to play music in an attempt to drown out their noise.

* * *

The problem with not seeing someone for a few days is that you are hit with a sense of unfamiliarity the second you meet again.

I stare at Craig and blink for a few times before approaching him at his spot by the streetlight. I quirk my eyebrows when I find him eating a hot dog sandwich.

"Sorry," he mumbles with his mouth full.

I give a small shrug. "Uh. I didn't figure you'd come back."

He smirks. "Kiss and run? Not my style."

I would have faltered had he said it with his hands shoved down his pockets and a cigarette stuck between his teeth. But he said right before taking one last bite of his hot dog, ketchup staining the corner of his lips, and the whole scene just made it sound silly, and not as suave as he honestly tried to make it sound.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his palm. "Just had to take care of some things. I wanted to tell you, but I realized too late that I didn't have your number."

I take out my phone and dictate it to him as he types it down, and it's strange because it was simply different, for the lack of a more appropriate term. It seemed strange to be giving my number to someone I cannot categorize as a friend, neither as something more. I can't justify how strange, but it feels exactly that.

"Oh, my friend's having a pig-out at his house later," Craig says as we start walking. "You should come along."

I twitch. "I don't really like going to parties."

He laughs. "It isn't technically a party. Just some guys who get together and eat and not mind each other's business."

"That's a weird thing to do."

"Well, my friend Clyde likes doing it. Sponsoring "pig outs" because he likes to show people he's mildly popular, so he could get more girls, or something."

I perk up when he mentions Clyde. I recall seeing him at Bebe's right before meeting Craig.

"It's just one of those things no one really understands," Craig continues. "Anyway, I'm bringing you along."

"Why me?"

"Who else?"

I hesitate for a moment. "Aren't you... uhm..." I bite the inside of my lip. "Don't you have someone else more important than I am?"

I don't know why I couldn't bring myself to say Thomas' name. Is the guilt from kissing Craig finally surfacing? I don't even want to remember the possible harm I could have caused to their relationship.

Craig scratches his cheek. "No."

I twitch.

We both grow silent for a while, and start observing the neighborhood as we walk along the streets.

At one point, we start judging passers by from the breed and appearance and behavior of their respective dogs until we had to run away from a lady who started screaming at us when Craig said "Bat-shit crazy animal enslaver" too loudly because her poodle was colored rainbow.

We enter a small convenience store, and as we stroll through the short aisles, he tells me of a time when the owner wasn't in the shop, and he and Clyde decided to play Skittles VS M&Ms which involved running around using candies as projectiles to shoot in the other person's mouth. Both packs were emptied before the owner could return.

"We should do that sometime," he tells me.

"I don't have good aim," I reply.

"The receive matters."

"I'm not good at that either."

I wait for him by the entrance as he pays for his pack of cigarettes, and by that time the sky is already dimming.

We walk for a few more minutes until we reach a row of houses. We walk further down until Craig stops in front of a brown house. He walks up the door and casually swings it open, stepping aside to let me through first.

I don't question it, though. I don't know their dynamic, so I simply follow suit. Craig leads me to the backyard, past people invading the cupboards and refrigerator, and I find myself at a completely unfamiliar environment. People I don't know yelling and smoking and stuffing their faces with food, and the scent of illegal substances overwhelms my senses.

Craig himself begins to smoke, and brings his arm around my shoulders. "Don't faint."

I shoot him a reproachful look.

"Craig!"

We both turn our heads, and I watch two familiar faces approach us.

One of them I remember as Clyde is dressed in a peculiar cowboy suit, wearing a sour face. "Dude, what's the point of having a Cowboy VS Alien pig-out when no one is dressed appropriately?"

"Because it's a stupid idea in the first place, you retard," Craig tells him, before looking at me. "This is Clyde. At times like this, I'm actually disappointed at myself for hangout with him."

Clyde clutches his chest in feign agony. "You're an asshole!"

The blond beside Clyde whistles, seemingly eyeing me up and down. "Who is this, and where can I get one?"

"And this is Kenny," Craig says. "Don't talk to him."

"I'm appalled, Craig, you've always shared your toys." I shudder when he winks at me. "It makes me want this one all the more."

Clyde shoots Kenny a menacing look. Kenny glances at him and shrugs, a smirk plastered on his face. "Well, anyway," Clyde sighs, "help yourself to anything, uh, what was your name again?"

"Tweek."

Kenny's face lights up. "Tweek of Tweak Bros.? If I blow you right now, would I get methspresso for free?"

I recoil, surprised by the blunt statement.

Craig punches him at the arm, but laughs anyway. "Don't scare the kid."

"Oh, do I sense jealousy?" Kenny smirks.

Craig raises his middle finger. "Oh, look, my hand's getting a boner, would you do the honors of sucking it, your royal Trash King?"

"As long as you cum on my face, Sir Douchebag."

Clyde groans. "Tell me again why my best friends are a couple of fags? Who did _not_ follow the dress code? Aren't gays supposed to be into that stuff?" He flails his arms in distress.

"Whoa there," Kenny says, "talk about stereotyping, Clyde. Shame on you!"

"And to answer your first question," Craig tells him, "we make you look manly."

Clyde stares at him. "Really, Craig? Really?"

Kenny grabs Clyde's arm. "I think you need booze and a smoke to get that sand out of your vagina." He glances at me and quickly takes hold of my hand, interlocking his fingers with mine, much to my surprise. "You too, Tweekers, you need to loosen up a little."

I twitch. Please don't call me that, I want to say.

"Tweekers is a horrible nickname," Craig tells him as he walks on to wherever Clyde is headed. Kenny sticks his tongue out at Craig's retreating figure, and pulls me along as he follows suit. I stare at our interlocked fingers and shiver at the alien feeling.

We arrive at a table full of food of various kinds. Both Craig and Kenny start grabbing things at random, including a pizza box, a small bucket of fries, a box of chicken wings, and chips. Clyde stands next to me and gestures toward the table. "Go ahead." So I reach for a couple of cans of Coke and more chips, and a small plate of brownies which Kenny tells me to get a little while after.

At the corner, I see someone making smoke circles from what looks like a water pipe, giggling along with a couple of others holding up a lighter at one end.

"Hey."

I quickly turn to Craig, walking towards the far end of Clyde's backyard where a big tree stands along with a few other smaller trees. He and Clyde take a seat in between the roots of the big tree protruding from the earth, and I sit beside him, comfortably snug against the curve of where the bark and the root meet. Kenny sprawls himself on the ground, already opening bags and a can of beer.

"Oh, word of warning," Craig tells me, "Clyde gets some of these shit from his after-school job at the grocery for free when the expiration date's close. You should probably smell before you eat."

"Come on, I wouldn't serve anything if I wasn't sure they were safe!" Clyde yells in defense.

"I could care less," Kenny pipes in. "I've been eating food off garbage since childhood. Hey, Clyde, roll me a joint, man."

Clyde crinkles his nose. "I've got none of that shit."

"Pussy."

Craig hands me a slice of pizza. I raise my eyebrows in alarm, and instinctively take a whiff of it. It smells, uhh, like pizza. I guess. I guess it's good. I warily take a bite of it. I see Kenny staring at me at the corner of my eye, and I shiver. His stare is also different, like a hawk studying the movements of a mouse, and I almost want to hide behind something to avoid that gaze.

"Tweek kinda looks like Thomas, doesn't he?"

I twitch at the mention of the name.

Clyde huffs. "You mean the weird kid you temporarily replaced me with?"

"Don't be such a baby," Craig tells him, downing a can of root beer.

"He was a wild one," Kenny snickers. "He cheated on Craig dozens of times."

My eyes widen at that statement. I look at Craig, but am surprised to find out gave off a feeling of indifference.

"We weren't even a real thing," he shrugs. "I could care less. And anyone who would cheat," he gestures quotation marks in the air, "on me, per se, with Kenny of all people is just a sad, desperate teenage boy."

"You wound me."

I fiddle with the hem of my shirt. I feel isolated in this small group whom I have just been acquainted with, puzzled and marooned by their conversation. Once again, I wonder why I'm here at this moment, sitting under a tree at a house full of strangers, at an unfamiliar part of town. It may seem like a break from the routine on the surface, but it's slowly revealing itself to be the same exact situation of my day-to-day life, only with different characters and another background to blend into.

I begin to detach myself from their conversation, nibbling on food here and there until I start feeling nauseous. Then I remember that I neglected to smell them before eating, but then I think, if I managed to survive drinking coffee riddled with drugs then I can survive food poison.

At least, that's what I try to convince myself at this moment.

I feel lightheaded. Blink a few times. Tweek. What?

"Tweek?"

I try to turn my head. They're staring at me. They don't look real. Lick my lips. Feels soft against my tongue. Wait, my lips? Craig's?

I see him, his face is near mine. Oh, look, lips. They taste like... cheese. And pepper. And nicotine. I don't feel so well.

His lips are gone. Why? Something burns. Down there.

"Wait a minute," someone says. Hey, that's my brownie. Ugh, my head hurts. He's laughing. Too loud. "Oh, man."

His hand's warm on my thigh. Ah, fuck. My pants are tight. Burning. Why are you rubbing my... no, he isn't. He is! Fuck. No, no hands at all. Or... what?

"He's fucking flying!" I can fly? I don't feel my legs. I don't have legs. I can fly!

A lot of people talking. Ugh, head hurts. Talking is weird. You open your mouth. Make sounds. You're talking. Is that right? How do you... how do you talk again?

I'm levitating! Why are there so many people? I can't breathe. Everyone can fly? It still burns down there.

Walls? Walls everywhere. I reach out. Touch it. Feels so weird on my fingers. Are they even real?

It's dark. Where am I? Oh, it was all a dream. I'm still sitting. On a tree. Doesn't feel like a tree. Why is there... what is this? I'm trapped! I can't move! I can't feel anything. It's dark.

And Craig... His hand still rubbing. Up and down movements. So weird that the thumb is such a fat little finger awkwardly placed at the side of the palm. Thumb is such a funny word. Thuuuumb.

He only wants sex. I know. I'm not a real thing. No, I'm real, he isn't. I mean we aren't. Ahh, it burns. Sex. Is good. Craig, what are you doing? Ahh, that's good. So good. Faster, harder, fuck, fuck, fuck-

He's laughing. I wonder why. I can't breathe. It's so dark.


End file.
